


Feeding The Reaper

by EmetoOmo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Emetophilia, Gen, Gore, Murder, Stuffing, Vomiting, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 18:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15612162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmetoOmo/pseuds/EmetoOmo
Summary: Reaper has a hunger he only knows one way to sate. Too bad for him, his prey of choice doesn’t stay down so easily.





	Feeding The Reaper

**Author's Note:**

> tummytiny asked: Reaper struggling to keep down some freshly eaten souls as they squirm in his gut.
> 
> Author’s note: I’m not sure if they said what it was like for him to take in souls or not canon-wise, so I’m taking some artistic liberties with my own interpretation of it.
> 
> Warning: Graphic depictions of vomiting and descriptions influenced by drug use and addiction ahead. Also gore and murder…

Gabriel rocked slowly, breathing heavily through his nose as he sat at the edge of a broken-down bed. The place he was squatting in was nothing of consequence, a simple rundown building in the industrial part of town. There was little more than factory workers and old warehouses…and ghost stories. Tales of the shadow that haunts the streets, stealing the souls from those unfortunate to be caught out after dark.

He pulled a shaking hand before his eyes, watching as his trembling digits began to fade, losing cohesion before looking more like smoke.  _“No…”_  he grit out, sheer will pulling them back together though the duality in his voice spoke loudly to how far gone he was already. Sweat dripped from his forehead, slowly fading into droplets of shadow and simply fading away like the last vestments of his humanity.

He didn’t want to do this…not again, not tonight. Not another soul, not another life on his hands…He didn’t want to wake again to the realization of  _how fucking good it felt._

The entirety of his body trembled with need, pain coursing through him as instinct and need fought to break through his iron will. He groaned, slumping forward off the bed as the muscles in his back contracted so strongly it felt like they were trying to tear themselves apart. His body contorted the harder he fought, and he found himself twisting, arching, crying out… _he practically howled at the moon as if his salvation depended on it saving him…_

There was no salvation to be had. Darkness came, unforgiving and hungry. The Reaper needed his souls, and he had come to collect his bounty.

The name had come, not out of need to name a separate entity, but at a desperate grasp of Gabriel to deny that it was truly  _him_  that did this. That it was  _his_  hunger,  _his_  angst,  _his_ hatred that he forced upon the innocent. It was everything that he had sworn to fight…Gabriel Reyes killed evil…he  _couldn’t_  be Reaper.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Kid.” He said into the mirror as he stared back into glowing red eyes behind his white macabre mask. He laughed, a hollow, haunting sound that filled the ruins of that old dilapidated room. If his lips held any cohesion anymore, there would have been a smile across them, as he headed out into the world.

The wind was as calm as he was as he kept to the natural shadows cast by buildings in the silver moonlight. Loud clanging reverberated through broken windows in steel-walled warehouses where goods were built, sorted, and crated to be exported out into the rest of the world. He didn’t care how long it took, a minute, an hour, two? The hunt was almost as fun as the feeding itself.

Anticipation built through his incorporeal form, sending ripples through his very core as he  _felt_  his prey. A group of haggard old fishermen, tough as the seas they normally lived on, all gathered at the docks drinking as they casually fished with their buddies. Raucous, roaring laughter echoed off the decrepit buildings that surrounded as they traded filthy jokes about their travels.

He descended upon them like death itself, silent and swift. The first had brought his beer to his lips and dropped it as he slumped forward. The others laughed, joking about his inability to hold his beer while Reaper entered his shadow, drawing his soul deep into him with a shuddered sigh. It went screaming, no match for his hunger.

His red eyes rolled back within the old fisherman as he savored the tingling sensation that came as he started to siphon the power off the devoured soul. He didn’t wait too long, rising to exit his body, his corpse decaying to dust before their very eyes.  _That_  got their attention.

“It’s the Reaper!” One of them gasped, making the sign of the Cross. Another was frozen in place, while the last took off running as fast as his elderly bones would carry him.

“Please,  _run_. I fucking love a good chase,” he sneered, reaching a fist out to call to the soul inside the frozen one. His red eyes locked with the Catholic man, letting him see the pure ecstasy that filled him as he devoured his friend before him. “I am his God now, and I have called him home to stay,” he mocked, a euphoric high taking him. His form shuddered again, a little more definition coming to him, his trench coat coming more into focus on his body.

“Have mercy…” The old man begged from trembling lips, falling to his knees and praying.

He knelt before him, leaning close as he smelled him with a soft groan, his soul like a heady ambrosia begging to be a part of him. “The only mercy I offer…” He gripped the man’s fishing knife with some concentration to solidify his hand, and plunged it deep into his stomach. Just barely he could feel the hot liquid spill over his fingers at the hilt of the blade. “…is that your death is a promise…” Not everyone got that promise.

At least, not Reaper.

He twisted the blade and pulled it out with a smirk, the red of his blood cutting through the greyscale he saw the world through in this form. It was beautiful, in its own way, and sticking two fingers in it, he brought it up to the old fisherman to smear across his lips, for a moment seeing Jack Morrison’s face there in his place.  _“Do you like the way you taste…just before you die, Jacky boy?”_

Without warning, he shoved his fist through the center of the old man’s chest and pulled his soul through into him with such force that it went straight to his head. He had to fall back for a moment, watching the bulge of the soul travel through his arm, fighting the whole way as he assimilated it into his body. “Fight…fight all you want…” He panted, a hand falling to his stomach as he rumbled, becoming more solid by the minute. “Makes it all the more satisfying.”

The last of them had not been forgotten by any means, and feeling particularly gluttonous, he floated off in that direction.

Silently he crept, traveling shadow to shadow, through the alleys, following the scent of fear and piss the man had left in his wake. When he found him finally, he was crouched sobbing behind a dumpster, trembling. Too easy.

He assumed the man’s shadow, waiting patiently for the moment the man thought he was finally safe, before letting his red eyes peer back at him. “Boo.”

The last of the fisherman clutched his chest, breath heaving as he began to go a little glassy eyed. “Really? Heart attack. That’s… _boring_.” He sighed, and pulled his soul from him just a moment before death, preferring the freshness that came when they were still alive as he took them.

Surprisingly wily this one was, the strength of his need to flee caused Reaper to groan a bit with frustration and a little unease as he forced him into his stomach. Almost instantly he regretted it. His newly corporeal legs went shaky and then limp as he fell there in the alley, gripping his engorged stomach. His skin stretched and  _moved_ , the semblance of a face sometimes appearing to poke out of it screaming silently.

“Fuck…” He panted in pain, knowing he only had so long before someone was going to come running toward that scream. He needed to be gone. He tried to force his shirt down over his swollen belly to no avail, and giving up, he took to the fire escape, clumsily climbing it with all the grace of a newborn deer. He belched, a dual and echoed sound, as a black plume escaped his parted lips. “Not here…not here…”

He knew the rooftops like the back of his hand, but navigating them like this was less than simple. Every movement just made the roiling of the souls that much worse within him. He felt too hot, his skin felt too tight, and he could hear their screams echoing off the inside of his skull.

Alright, maybe not literally, but Gabriel felt like he could.

He barely had time to climb in his window as he retched hard, tripping over the window sill and catching himself on hands and knees on the decaying floor. Shaking fingers tossed his trench coat off, and pulled his shirt off next ripping his mask off with it. He practically writhed trying to get out of his pants, begging for anything to ease the pressure that was rising within him, while his stomach moved like the story seas their selves.

His mouth watered thickly, and he barely had the time to roll to his side before the first full productive wave of ‘vomit’ came  _literally_  screaming up his throat. Black and thick like tar, a face bubbled in it, its face twisted in the eternal torment only a partially digested soul could know. A belch forced its way out before he vomited again. It strained his muscles to their limits, his body aching still, as he gagged and retched remnants of the souls onto his floor. He closed his eyes, unable to look them in their faces, praying they’d evaporate soon enough.

Not that they’d  _evaporate_  from his nightmares.


End file.
